


god's got a sick sense of humor

by icemachine



Category: Will & Grace
Genre: I'm sorry Jack, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, No Dialogue, Pre-Canon, Unrequited Love, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-19 15:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18137621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icemachine/pseuds/icemachine
Summary: Loving Will Truman is a constant state of being. Even when he has nothing—he will always, always have his love for Will to keep the fires burning, to keep the lights on.





	god's got a sick sense of humor

&

 

Every time he's around Will Truman, Jack feels a slipping, crushing weight plant itself into a rest in the skin-and-bone above his heart; every time he’s around Will Truman he becomes poetic, which is a miracle in itself, but _every time he’s around Will Truman_ he feels like miracles can live, can breathe, can _exist_ in the fullest form.

 

It is a disgusting feeling—miracles are lining the edge of impossible, and while Will Truman is himself a miracle… there is no _wonder_ between Will and Jack. There is no spark between them. Between Will and Jack, there is:

 

    * Jack and his vivid imagination and the map he crafted of Will’s body one night when he couldn’t sleep. Every surface and crevice, every frecklestar on every strip of Will’s skin—Jack on every strip of Will’s skin—it isn’t worshi—
    * Another man, always another man, living in either Will’s eyes or underneath Jack’s body and Jack is _so good_ at the sex and the touching because for a moment for one _moment very brief too small to touch_



 

  * __he__


  * _can_


  * _pretend_


  * _that_


  * _he’s_


  * _with_


  * _Wi—_



 

  * A bond. Even Will has to admit there’s a connection. _He feels the connection._ They are connected. They are connected without touch, without desire—instead with two minds bleeding to one, Will turning to Jack for every crush, every _small_ feeling of interest that he feels for another man, and God, God, _God_
  * it
  * hurts; why can’t Will see Jack for what he _truly_ is: a heart that beats only for Will Truman, a body that longs only for Will Truman—



  
  
  


&

  


He almost says it, again. He’s always _almost saying it;_ loving Will Truman is a constant state of being. Even when he has nothing—he will always, _always_ have his love for Will to keep the fires burning, to keep the lights on, to keep him light and safe and slim.

 

  * He’s in a bookstore with Will Truman and Will Truman is engrossed in a novel. He’s not paying attention to Jack, who is sitting next to him, _pretending_ to read his fifth magazine; this is good, this is everything pure, this way Jack can watch him smile and laugh and light up and Will won’t even _notice._ He’s so—he’s _everything:_ perfect and beautiful and kind and hilarious and perfect and beautiful and kind and beautiful and kind and perfect and _perfect_ and **perfect**. He wants to say something, he wants their knees to touch again, he wants to say _God Will I am in love with you_ but Will’s on the last pages of the book and Jack _doesn’t_ want their story to end like this.
  * Will is in Jack’s bedroom and _Love is a Battlefield_ just started playing on his record And Now Will’s Touching Him Touching Him T o u c h i n g  h i m like he does in Jack’s daydreams—and they’re dancing, Will’s hands around Jack’s torso, their bodies moving slowly with the twists and beats of the song, and Will—Will doesn’t understand. It’s torturous. He’s dipping Jack, hands on the back of his neck, and Jack, momentarily, has found a new hope— _best friends don’t touch each other like this, do they?_
  * Jack is in Will’s bedroom and Will is talking excitedly about a guy he met in class—oh, how _blond_ his hair is, how strong his jawline is, how he licks his lips while he’s studying, and it’s _torturous_ how much Will wants him. It’s _torturous._ So many things about Will are torturous & _oh,_ now Will is making his confession: he hasn’t had sex with a man yet. _I could teach you,_ Jack thinks, _so many things, if you let me, if you wanted me like you want him. Do you think you’d like him once you get to know him? Do you think he’ll even call you after he fucks you? No one is going to love you the way I do._ He smiles at Will, tells him it’s worth the wait, that his first is going to be a very lucky man, and ignores the smile waves on Will’s face.



  
  


&

 

When he finally tells Will—

 

When he finally tells Will—

 

When he _finally_ tells Will—

 

After Thanksgiving, Jack takes the first guy that he can find and fucks him three times just to see if he can feel something. He doesn’t call John-Jacob-Jason- _who-knows_ back, even after Jerry calls Jack’s house twelve times, and he doesn’t even imagine Will underneath him; instead he tries to _force_ feelings for this man, and for the next man, and for every man he meets and sleeps with for every year after Will calls him _the family pet_ and smiles his holy smile and shatters everything that Jack is. Every boy is a tourniquet;  _stop the blood flowing with tightness, he's so good at this, make the ache stop its flux moving slowly from Jack's heartbody_ _\- body - body - body._

 

No one will ever make him burn like Will Truman does. It is never the same. Nothing will ever be the same.

**Author's Note:**

> blasphemous rumours by depeche mode
> 
> please kudos+comment if enjoyed! :)


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